


Lights Will Guide You Home

by rabidchild67



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fever, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Infection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a long flight from Cape Verde to New York when you’re injured.</p>
<p>Tag to "Most Wanted."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Will Guide You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song “Fix You” by Coldplay.

Neal slept. 

He’d passed out almost as soon as the chartered flight took off for Las Palmas, and didn’t wake until they were about to land. He woke with a start, his left wrist pulling at the handcuff slipped around it, and when he let it fall again, he found it resting in the upturned palm of Peter Burke’s right hand, which lay on the armrest of their shared seat. Neal reflected on the juxtaposition of the hated cuff paired with the warm hand of his lover and sighed.

Peter’s fingertips wormed between Neal's until their fingers were intertwined. “Hey,” Peter’s voice was soothing as he leaned in to speak into Neal's ear. “We’re just about to land.”

“Oh. OK.” Neal was aware suddenly of the drool at the side of his mouth. “Wow, I guess I was really tired,” he said, swiping his free hand across his lips. In truth, Neal hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since leaving New York, but he didn’t want to go into that. He felt overheated, too, but that was probably the rising sun streaming through the windows. “Sorry about this,” he said to Peter as he jingled the cuffs’ chain, meaning the fact they had to be cuffed together. 

“I’m not,” Peter said, his eyes crinkling in a happy smile. Agent Collins had insisted that Neal be restrained during their flight, and Peter had tethered Neal to himself before the man had had a chance to protest. He and Neal sat at the back of the plane, Collins with Dobbs/MacLeish at the front, and Peter seemed happy to keep it that way. He’d insinuated that Collins ought to keep track of the higher-profile prisoner and Collins had bought it. Neal was relieved to be able to have the alone-time with his lover, who he’d yearned for like a missing limb for the last several weeks. 

Neal smiled back, weakly. He was feeling out of sorts – the wound in his leg and the excitement of the last few days had drained him more than he’d wanted to admit, and in the absence of the adrenaline rush, he’d clearly crashed hard. He straightened in his seat and winced as his thigh pulled, and he was suddenly aware that it was throbbing painfully. He’d refused painkillers from the doctor that MacLeish had brought in, and was now regretting it. He turned his head to look out the window as they landed, taking in the sapphire blue color of the surrounding ocean beyond the airport. 

The jarring of the plane as it bounced and slid down the runway brought him back to reality and he stiffened as his leg was jostled. 

“Everything OK?” Peter asked, concern creasing his forehead.

“Mm,” Neal answered, biting the inside of his cheek; he didn’t trust his voice to remain steady if he talked.

After taxiing, the four men all rose to deplane, and Neal stumbled against Peter as his thigh muscles seized up. “Sorry,” he muttered and hobbled stiffly up the aisle to the stairs. Peter, as if reading Neal's mind, pressed his shoulder against Neal's from behind so that Neal could lean into him as they walked down the short stairs to the tarmac. The walk to the terminal stretched across expanses of concrete that shimmered in the sun, and Neal gritted his teeth as they crossed it, sweating nearly through his light linen jacket by the time they arrived. 

Inside, the aviation services terminal for private charters was blessedly cool, and Peter escorted Neal to a nearby bank of leather chairs and helped him sit, then unlocked the handcuff on his own wrist and shackled Neal to the chair with an apologetic smirk. “Can I get you something?” he asked in a low voice. He looked around and saw that Collins and MacLeish were distracted watching the refueling of the plane outside, and ran a finger along Neal's jaw. “You look flushed.”

Neal leaned into the touch and looked up at Peter. “Just some water, I think.” He closed his eyes as Peter retreated, the heat and the dryness in them making him tear up suddenly. He let his head drop forward and he rolled his shoulders, trying to stretch his muscles. He tried not to think of the long trip ahead or the pain in his leg.

“Here you go,” Peter said, handing him a bottle of Perrier and taking the seat next to him, a sandwich in his hands. “Hungry?”

“How did you find deviled ham in the Canary Islands?” Neal asked, amazed. 

“It’s not deviled – it’s Iberian! Better than prosciutto!” He bit into the baguette with gusto and Neal had to smile as a bit of pink meat dangled between his lips for a second. 

After downing the water – as well as Peter’s orange juice – and a trip to the men’s room to wash his face, Neal felt a bit better. Not long after, their plane was pronounced serviced and ready to take them on to Madrid, where they’d catch a commercial flight to JFK. Neal limped beside Peter with his hands cuffed before him, Peter’s hand on his bicep to support him into the plane. When they’d taken their seats again, Peter unlocked Neal's cuffs and slid them into his pocket. Neal watched wordlessly and Peter shrugged. “What are you going to do – jump out of the plane into the Atlantic?”

Once the plane took off, they sat with their heads together, Peter relating some of the office gossip to Neal that he’d missed in the weeks he’d been gone. 

“How go the wedding preparations?” Neal asked when Peter mentioned Diana.

Peter grinned knowingly. “About the way you’d expect them to go when an ambassador’s wife and a strong, Israeli mother get together to plan anything.”

Neal winced and then laughed. “Oh, to be a fly on _that_ wall.”

“I suspect Di and Christy are wishing they’d eloped to Vermont or something.” Peter shook his head, amused, but Neal's expression turned serious.

“Come on, tell me how it’s really been. It can’t have been easy for you at the office, and it wont be when we get back.”

Peter shook his head. “No. That’s not to be discussed here. I’d do it again to keep you safe, Neal, and you know it.”

“Thank you,” Neal whispered.

Peter deftly changed the subject. “You want to tell me about that villa you and Moz scored? That’s some nice place, right on the beach. Tell me how you passed the time.”

Neal smiled. “It was boring, actually, and that’s no lie. I took to painting reproductions. You’d have loved my ‘Girl with a Pearl Earring.’ I think I finally got the play of light on the pearl just right.”

“Maybe Moz’ll send it.”

“Nah, it’s burned. Didn’t want to leave anything when we ran.”

“And Maya?”

Neal felt his face color. “About that. Peter, she was –“

“Neal, it’s all right.”

“No, Peter, it’s not.”

“It is. You didn’t think you’d be able to come home, not ever. I know that, I do.” He paused and looked down, started picking at his cuticles. “Intellectually, I do,” he finished, his voice trailing off.

Neal reached over the armrest they shared and took Peter’s hand, eyeing Collins and MacLeish, who both appeared to have fallen asleep in the front row. “She was a comfort, Peter, and a pale substitute for what I really wanted. I missed you so much it physically hurt me.” Peter smiled, his thumb caressing the knuckles on Neal's hand. “I – didn’t sleep for days when I got to the island,” Neal continued, “and I don’t think I got a good night’s sleep the entire time. No matter what I did, I was always up in the middle of the night. So I started mapping the constellations in the sky.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter looked up at him, interested; astronomy had been a favored pastime of his as a child and he’d shared that with Neal before. They’d visited the planetarium in New York once before, and Neal found Peter’s boyish enthusiasm to be utterly charming; in fact, that was the night of their first kiss.

“Just like you taught me. You know, there’s an app for that? I got to know them all by names and their stars and everything. I was going to order a telescope, but, oh, Peter, the night sky over Africa is so dark, it’s like the stars are hovering just out of reach, you don’t even need one.”

“Which one’s your favorite?”

“Hercules,” Neal answered without thinking. “I’d look up at that bright cluster of stars – you know the one in the middle?”

“I do,” Peter said, amused.

“I’d look at it and think that maybe you were looking at it too,” Neal said and then pulled his hand away, embarrassed.

“What? That’s nice,” Peter pointed out. “You can’t see Hercules from my house, but it’s still nice.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Neal's ear. “Romantic.”

A shiver went down Neal's spine at the intimate contact and he smiled. But the conversation had gone on for too long – they could not take a chance that Collins or MacLeish would see them huddled together. Neal sat up straighter and looked out the window at the clouds beneath them and felt another shiver go through him, only this one left him chilled.

\----

“We’re in Madrid.”

Neal blinked his eyes open – he’d fallen asleep once again. When he turned his head to look at Peter, though, he realized how exhausted he still felt, and maybe a little queasy. The flight had been turbulent and though he’d never been a bad flier, it just seemed to have gotten to him. 

Peter held up the cuffs apologetically and Neal presented his hands; he smiled gratefully when Peter secured them very loosely. When the plane had taxied to a stop at the terminal, Neal got to his feet and swayed slightly as a sudden dizziness hit him. He groaned involuntarily and Peter looked back at him with concern. 

“Neal? You OK?”

“My leg,” Neal said, shaking his head to clear it. He hated feeling weak, hated more giving off the appearance of it, especially with Collins giving him the stink eye from the door of the plane. Still, he was grateful for Peter’s hand on his arm as he limped up the aisle and off the plane to the waiting van that would take them to the International Departures terminal.

The wait to get through the security checkpoint for the main terminal was interminable, the pat-down due to Neal's and MacLeish’ cuffs humiliating, and by the time they made the long walk to their gate, Neal's leg was throbbing painfully against the tight fabric of his pants. Wincing, he realized it had been nearly an entire day since he’d last changed the dressing, and asked if Peter could take him to the men’s room for that purpose. 

Once there, Peter removed his handcuffs and handed him the bag he’d packed for him. Neal limped to a stall and closed the door, setting the bag down atop the toilet. Taking down his pants, he bent over to remove the old bandage, sucking in his breath as the wound stuck to it. He noticed it was more swollen than it had been the day before, the skin around it an angry red, black stitches jutting out at odd angles. He suddenly wondered if the doctor MacLeish had brought to him had been on the up-and-up, then realized it didn’t much matter at this point. He squirted a liberal amount of antibiotic ointment on a clean gauze pad and pressed it against the wound, then fumbled with the roll of tape to tear off a few strips. He hissed as he pressed strips of it on his skin to secure the pad; the muscles around the wound were tender, the skin hot to the touch, and his vision went nearly white from the pain. He leaned against the wall of the bathroom stall, pressing his cheek against the cool metal and breathing deeply through his nose to try to clear his head. When he felt a little better, he pulled up his pants, gritting his teeth as the tight fabric once again pressed against his injury. 

Ditching the trash from his first aid, he hobbled out to where Peter waited for him. “Is everything OK, Neal?” Peter asked, looking intently into Neal's face. “You’re as white as a sheet.”

Neal shrugged as he bent over the sink and washed his hands. “All this walking and standing in security lines – not so good for a three-day old gunshot wound. Who knew?” 

“Do you need a doctor? There’s another flight at 6:00.”

“No,” Neal said adamantly. “What I want is to get home as soon as possible.”

“C’mere,” Peter said, pulling Neal to him with a hand on the back of his neck.

“Peter, no.”

“We’re alone in here, and I don’t know how long that’ll be, so _come here_.”

Neal moved closer to him reluctantly, not because he didn’t want to feel Peter’s comforting arms around him, but because he feared their absence. He rested his head in the crook between Peter’s neck and shoulder, and breathed in the scent of him – slightly unwashed from their long travels and yet still distinctly Peter. The fact he’d never thought he’d get to experience this again, combined with his exhaustion and the pain in his leg brought too many emotions to the surface and he gasped as all the air went out of him. Suppressing a sob, he pushed off of Peter, but left his hands against his chest – his still-wet hands. Covering, he wiped the backs of them against Peter’s shirt and tried to joke. “You’re the sexiest hand towel ever.”

Not fooled, Peter cupped Neal's face with his right hand, and used his thumb to swipe away the sole tear that had collected at the corner of Neal’s eye. “I love you, never forget that,” he said and handed Neal the handcuffs regretfully.

\----

The way Neal saw it, one of the few perks of his injury was that he and Peter got to pre-board their flight. 

He was, unsurprisingly, asleep by the time they’d hit their cruising altitude. When he woke, it was because he suddenly felt unbearably hot, and when he opened his eyes, he realized he’d been sweating profusely. He turned his head to look at Peter, who was engrossed in a book on his Kindle. Neal attempted to lift his hands to get Peter’s attention, but a sudden feeling of weakness had settled on him. 

“So hot,” he muttered, fidgeting in his seat; the pain in his leg awakened with a vengeance and he couldn’t help but groan.

“Neal?” Peter turned toward him and frowned. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” Neal said wryly, but on second thought admitted, “I feel like hell.”

Peter felt Neal's forehead with the back of his hand. “You’ve got a fever. Did you pick up a bug on the island, or… shit!”

“What?” Neal followed Peter’s eyes down to where they’d settled on Neal's right leg; blood and pus had soaked through his pants, leaving a stain about the size of the palm of his hand. “Shit,” Neal muttered.

“Jesus, Neal, what’d you do?” Peter leaned forward in his seat, his hand hovering above Neal's leg. Neal sat up quickly, a hand on Peter’s wrist to stop him touching it. 

“Nothing, I – whoa,” Neal breathed, feeling suddenly weak and incredibly ill. He fell back against his seat and could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. “I _really_ don’t feel well, Peter,” he said, his voice shaking.

“Shit,” Peter repeated and rang the flight attendant call button.

“Can I help you?” the flight attendant asked, a pleasant smile on her face. Her nametag read, “Mindy,” and Neal tried to smile at her.

“My friend is ill,” Peter said, flashing his badge at her. He rose and moved off to the back of the cabin with her, probably to preserve Neal's privacy, but he thought that ship had surely sailed the minute all the flight crew had been alerted to the fact that two men in Federal custody would be onboard. 

Neal stared up at the little light that was flashing above his head; the flight attendant had neglected to switch it off, and he thought he might be able to discern a pattern in it. When Peter and the flight attendant returned, Neal realized he’d forgotten they’d gone and then he knew he was in trouble. 

“They’re going to see if we can move you to First Class – you’ll be able to lie down there. And we’re trying to see if there’s a doctor on board. Can you sit tight?”

Neal nodded and closed his eyes and concentrated on not feeling miserable. 

“Hey,” Peter said a minute later, or at least it felt like a minute later. Neal opened his eyes, realizing he’d fallen asleep again. “We’re going to take you up front now, OK?” He sat down beside Neal and unlocked the hand cuffs for the last time, then slid them into his pocket. “You think you can walk on your own?”

“I’ll try,” Neal said and winced as he undid his seatbelt and tried to push himself to his feet. But the pain in his thigh was now beyond excruciating, sending stabs of white-hot agony up and down his right side. He nearly passed out, falling back against his seat and panting through it until he could see clearly again.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder and looked at him grimly. “I’m going to help you, and I’m apologizing now, OK? Because it’s not gonna be easy.”

Neal nodded and felt Peter’s hand under his arm. Gritting his teeth, he let Peter drag him to his feet, inching his way out into the aisle. Peter then pulled Neal's right arm over his shoulders and slid his own left arm around Neal's waist, supporting him as they made their way slowly up the aisle. All of the movement pulled painfully on Neal's leg, and he shook his head to keep from passing out.

“Now wait just a minute, what are you two doing?”

Peter and Neal both looked up to see Agent Collins blocking their way. 

“Neal's ill, we’re moving somewhere he can lie down comfortably,” Peter said, his voice as even as he could make it. Neal recognized that tone in Peter’s voice; one slight push and Collins would be in a world of hurt. 

“Where are his cuffs?” Collins demanded, a cocky look on his face. “I don’t want to have to tell Agent Hughes you haven’t been following regulations, Burke.”

Neal was shaking with the effort of standing, and began to wilt against Peter’s side. Peter renewed his grasp around Neal's waist and hauled him upright. “You can tell Reese Hughes anything you like, Agent Collins, but if you don’t step aside, I will personally kick the living shit out of you,” he said pleasantly, and moved forward, shouldering the man aside.

“Nice,” Neal muttered to him once they’d passed through the curtain out of Coach Class that Mindy the flight attendant was thoughtfully holding aside for them.

“I’m beginning to hate that guy,” Peter replied.

“Beginning?”

Mindy showed them to two empty First Class seats, and Peter helped Neal to sit down heavily in the one near the window then helped him move it back so he was reclining. “That better?”

Neal mustered up the strength to nod, but just barely. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this ill,” he said, shifting in his seat and wincing when the muscles in his leg pulled. A minute later, Mindy reappeared with glasses of water for them both and a First Aid kit. 

“I’m going to make an announcement to see if anyone on board is a doctor or nurse,” she said, and gave them both a pleasant smile. 

As she did, Peter opened up the First Aid kit and found some bandages and a small pair of scissors. Crouching down, he worked them under the cuff at the bottom of Neal's pants. “I know you like your nice clothes, Neal, but I’d say these are toast anyway, yeah?”

“Sure.” Neal was actually past caring; the pants felt too tight around his leg and removing them might provide some relief.

Peter cut the pants to just above the wound and then turned the scissors, cutting the fabric away to expose Neal's thigh. Neal hissed as Peter pulled gently at the gauze pad, the tape pulling the skin and hair on the leg. “Mother–“ Peter muttered and then cut himself off as he discarded the bandage on the floor and went rooting in the First Aid kit. Neal glanced down at the wound and quickly wished he hadn’t. 

The wound was twice as swollen as before, the skin around it beyond reddened to an angry purple. There were thin, silvery lines leading away from it, unmistakable signs of infection, in case the blood and pus that were oozing from it weren’t enough of an indicator.

“How long has it been like this?” Peter asked evenly as he began to clean around it with some alcohol.

Neal hissed. “Since Madrid?” He stiffened, digging his nails into the armrests and coming up slightly off the seat as Peter gently probed around the wound; some of the stitches had popped as well. 

“Didn’t the doctor give you any antibiotics?”

Neal shook his head and tried to stifle a whimper as Peter covered it with a fresh gauze pad and tape. Peter nodded, once, but said nothing more. He went off to talk to the flight attendant, and Neal closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain until he returned. A sudden chill had him shivering by the time Peter returned.

“OK, we’ve struck out on finding any medical personnel on board, but someone in the back had some antibiotics.”

“What k-kind?”

“Amoxicillin?”

Neal shook his head. “C-can’t – allergic.”

“I thought you were allergic to penicillin.” Peter removed his jacket and draped it over Neal, who snuggled into it gratefully.

“They’re the same thing.”

“Damn.”

“How long until we land in New York?”

“Six hours.”

Neal closed his eyes against the urge to weep; he had never in his life felt as bad as he did at this moment, but it wasn’t as if he had any choice. He felt Peter’s right hand cover his left on the arm rest and squeeze, and reflected that if this had to happen, at least he had someone who cared about him to look after him. “Thank you, Peter,” he said quietly, and then tried to relax.

\----

_Neal was dreaming of Cape Verde, of the hours he’d spend on the darkened beach behind their villa, staring at the stars and imagining Peter doing the same. “Can you see me?” he used to say._

_“Can you see me?”_

He woke suddenly as Peter squeezed his hand again, recalled where he was and then opened his eyes. He pushed Peter’s jacket off of him – and the two blankets Peter had piled on top of that while he slept – he was hot again. 

“What was that?” Peter asked, leaning over.

“Nothing, I was dreaming about the constellations.”

“Hercules?”

Neal smiled weakly. “Yeah. You know, his was a tale of redemption in the end.”

“And lots of sex,” Peter said with a smile curling his lips, but Neal frowned, a realization dawning in his mind that refused to be pushed aside.

“He started his twelve labors to atone for his crimes.”

Peter’s brow creased and he held Neal's hand tighter. “Neal, you’re nothing like him.”

Neal took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled his hand away. “Aren’t I? He was driven mad until he murdered his family – that was the price he paid for angering the gods. What price will you pay when we get back, Peter? What price for helping me? For – for –“ _For loving me?_ he thought but did not say. He was suddenly overcome with grief and guilt. He could feel his heart racing, and he struggled to catch his breath.

“Neal, this is the fever talking, you don’t really believe that.”

“I do, I think… I think I do.”

Peter turned to him, took his hand and leaned forward so that only Neal could hear him. “Listen to me, Neal, you’ve got to stop this. You are no more to blame for me coming to find you than you are for getting shot. Everything I did, I did with my eyes wide open, and because I care for you. No vengeful gods or goddesses have interfered, we are not slaves to the fates, and in this case, you have nothing to make up for.”

“I put a target on your back.”

“And I’d have tattooed it on if I thought it would help you. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve done a lot you need to atone for in your life, Neal, and you were on your way to doing just that before all of this happened.”

“But the treasure –“

“May have increased your debt, but it doesn’t change the fact that you were on the right path. Now, come on, please calm down. We can talk about it later, when you’re well.”

But all Neal could do was shake his head; Peter was wrong, so wrong.

\----

When Neal woke again he felt unspeakably worse. 

“Peter,” he tried to say, but the actual effort of talking was exhausting. He felt disjointed, somehow, like his consciousness was barely tethered to his body, like he might float away. He felt like he was dead but awake, like he might disappear. 

“Peter,” he tried to say again, the sound too low in the plane’s pressurized cabin, too low to penetrate the dull moan of the engines. 

A wave of panic assailed him – something was wrong, terribly wrong, and it made him want to scream. What came out was barely a whimper, but at last he got Peter’s attention. “Peter!”

“Hmm?” Peter said, turning his head.

“Help me,” Neal tried to say, and he was pretty sure his lips moved, but he couldn’t hear his voice. He couldn’t find his breath easily, it was hard to make words.

“Neal? What is it? Talk to me, tell me.” Peter’s voice was calm, soothing, and Neal opened his mouth but no words would come out. So weak, he felt so weak.

_I don’t know._

Peter picked up his hand and stroked it, clearly unsure what else he could do.

“What is it?” Mindy said, coming over.

“He – he’s worse, I don’t know why,” Peter said, his voice shaking, face pale. “Neal, come on,” he said, his eyes searching Neal's. “Don’t do this.”

_I’m not, I’m not doing anything_.

“Now what is going on with my prisoner?” came a familiar, hated voice. 

“Move away, Collins,” Peter said slowly, angrily. “This is your fault. All your fault. If he dies…”

“Then I still get my bonus,” Collins replied smugly. “Come on, Burke, surely you’re not falling for this sick act of his?”

Peter’s hand on Neal's tightened and he lowered it. “I am giving you one more warning.”

Collins laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “Oh, I get it. You know, when Kramer said you two were close, I didn’t know he meant _close._ Well, Burke, you wouldn’t be the first agent to go for a little strange with a CI, but damn, man, I didn’t have you pegged for a homo.”

Neal heard Peter _growl._

“Please, sir, you need to return to coach,” Mindy said, trying to get rid of Collins.

But he went on, ignoring her. “But that’s OK, it’s cool. If you want to step out on your wife, that’s none of my business.”

_Peter, no, please!_ Neal tried to say, but all he managed was to squeeze Peter’s hand.

“She’s a real pretty thing, your wife. Let me know if you get tired of that, maybe she’ll want a real man--“

“Sir, that is ENOUGH!” Mindy said sharply, but Neal could see Collins’ face from here, he was goading Peter, picking a fight. 

“Peter, no,” he moaned, trying to get his attention, but it was not enough. Suddenly, Peter dropped Neal's hand and launched himself at Collins, pushing him back down the aisle, Mindy in his wake trying to stop it all from escalating. Neal could not see what was happening, could only hear their voices, angry but getting fainter. 

_Stop it, please,_ Neal thought, but could not say, and he tried feebly to rise, to make them stop, but he couldn’t and fell back. He could feel his heart racing in his chest, and soon his lungs were burning from lack of air and he thought he might pass out. He lay listlessly in his seat, struggling to stay awake. It was a losing battle.

“Neal? Neal!” he heard Peter calling his name, but it was too late, because then everything went black.

\----

Neal was trapped under a heavy veil of illness and pain killers. Sometimes he heard voices, and other times he could even understand what they were saying, but he didn’t seem to be able to get any closer to them, or to shuck off the heavy veil of unconsciousness that covered him and weighed him down so completely it was utterly futile to even try. So he just didn’t.

He tried to dream about the stars in the sky, about using them to find Peter, but his mind remained utterly blank and he soon gave up. He felt so alone.

“Neal.” 

At long last, a voice he recognized penetrated the veil, and he could discern light shining through his eyelids and he thought maybe he might, at last, be allowed to emerge.

“Neal, can you hear me?”

It was Peter’s voice, of course, low and calm and hopeful, and so close to Neal's ear it felt like a caress. He opened his eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” Peter said, and suddenly his face was floating in front of Neal's, a relieved smile making his eyes crinkle.

_Peter,_ Neal tried to say, but his voice seemed to have still been failing him, and all he could manage was, “Puh.” He furrowed his brows and tried again, “Peter.”

If it was possible, Peter’s smile got even wider. “You don’t know how good it is to see you.”

“Where…?”

“We’re in Halifax. The plane was able to make an emergency landing. You’ve been – well, you were in a coma for a week, and you nearly died.” Peter’s face fell a bit, as the memory seemed to cause him some pain. 

“Sorry.”

“What’s to be sorry for? You’re here and you’re better finally, and… well, I’m not sorry.” He smiled again, the expression making him seem almost boyish, and Neal found himself smiling back. 

“Collins?”

“Is in New York, I think. I expect. I don’t care, actually. He took MacLeish in, got his face on the news and everything. Not that he looked that good after I got done with him. I may have broken his nose.”

“Peter!”

“Tell me he didn’t have it coming?! Anyway, you look tired, you should try to get some more sleep.” Neal could feel him pick up his hand and kiss the back of it gently. “It’s so good to _see you._ ” he said again.

“Love.”

“Me too, Neal. Me too.”

\----

It was two weeks later and Neal was sitting in the solarium of the hospital, feeling restless. It was late, he was going to be released in the morning, and he was nervous about what his return to New York would mean. Sure, his deal with the DOJ was still in force, but he didn’t know what to expect back in the office and worse, he didn’t know what it would all mean for Peter. He’d been evasive on the details, which only made Neal more nervous. 

Neal was sitting back in the wheelchair he was in, head resting on its back so he could look at the sky beyond the large windows that made up the ceiling of the room. The room was dark – the nurse had turned out the lights so that he could look out at the stars. He searched the northern horizon for the familiar constellation. 

“I don’t think you’ll see Hercules without a telescope from here,” came a familiar voice behind him. 

“The city’s lights are too bright,” Neal agreed, disappointment coloring his voice.

“Luckily, I brought one,” Peter said, and Neal turned in his chair to see him standing in the doorway holding a portable telescope. He walked over to the windows and set it up on a table, bending forward to adjust its settings as Neal wheeled over. 

“Thanks for this,” Neal said. “I missed looking at the stars.” He leaned forward in his chair and used the telescope to scan the sky until he saw the familiar shape of the keystone, traced it up to the stars that formed Hercules’ head and outstretched arms. 

“Still looking for redemption in the stars?” Peter said, leaning up against the table and looking down at Neal. The way the lights from the hallway hit his face, the whites of his eyes seemed to glow. 

“I don’t think I will find it there.”

“That’s good, because I was not looking forward to a metaphysical conversation tonight.”

Neal laughed and reached out his hand, which Peter took. “This is very silly, but I did always imagine that the stars could somehow lead us back together again.”

“You are right – it is very silly. But romantic, too, so don’t look so affronted.”

“’If wishes were horses…’”

“’…then beggars would ride,’” Peter finished the proverb. “Determination got us back together again, Neal. And solid investigation.”

“And a very sensitive recording device.”

“And love,” Peter said, his voice breaking slightly. “But we have to be careful with this second chance we’ve earned. I don’t want to – I _can’t_ do this again.”

“I never wanted to leave.”

“And I never wanted to send you away. But you’re back, and we do have a second chance, so let’s not dwell on what might not have been, OK?”

“It’s a deal.”

“Good.” Peter said, pushing the telescope aside and reaching for Neal, his kiss its own kind of redemption.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
